


Inertial Propulsion

by recrudescence



Category: Inception
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-06
Updated: 2010-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He does it with the same gleeful mischievousness that earned him disciplinary measures through every last year of his top-notch schooling. Eames can do stealthy very well, dazzlingly well, and doing it for a living doesn't mean he can't also do it for play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inertial Propulsion

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt from the Inception kink meme: _While Arthur is sleeping, Eames plugs in his headphone into Arthur's ears. He quietly plays "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien." Arthur freaks out._

He does it with the same gleeful mischievousness that earned him disciplinary measures through every last year of his top-notch schooling. Eames can do stealthy very well, dazzlingly well, and doing it for a living doesn't mean he can't also do it for play.

Arthur probably doesn't know the meaning of the word. This is really for his own good. No one just shy of thirty should have the unsmiling visage of a Roman statue so insistently inscribed on their face.

Not that he knows Arthur's precise age. Even so, despite all the scowling and the suits and the inhuman determination to have no discernible hobbies whatsoever, Eames figures he can't be far out of his twenties, if he's out of them at all. It's a startling thought, and one that should startle Arthur into doing something about his tight-laced youth before it's completely behind him.

With a delicacy completely wasted on his audience, Eames eases the lock on Arthur's hotel room and eases the headphones onto him. Even sprawled and surrendered to an actual off-the-clock sleep unaided by chemicals, Arthur's brows are low and his jaw is tight.

A few deft taps of Eames's fingers over the screen of his iPhone and a third party enters the room.

Edith Piaf begins to play.

Arthur, lying on his back under the covers, grips at them a little with one hand. Gradually upping the volume, Eames waits.

He expects a shout, an explosion of undignified sputtering, maybe some girlish shrieking and flailing if he's lucky.

Arthur's eyes fly open, wide and panicked. He sits bolt upright without a sound save a swift intake of air, as if he's finally pierced the surface after an unfathomably deep dive underwater.

Then he punches Eames in the face and dives off the bed to seek cover.

The headphone cord whiplashes the iPhone out of his hand and it cracks against the wall. Redness splashes vividly through Eames's mind and he tries to cheer himself up by reasoning that perhaps it was only the sound of Arthur's fist crushing against his nose. There has to be a silver lining in this somewhere. What he says, however, is, "Fucking _hell_." His voice manages to locate a peculiar area between a growl and a squeak.

When the clouds clear from his vision and his eyes aren't watering _quite_ as insistently as before, he notices Arthur crouched in a fighting stance at the foot of the bed. Feet bare and graceful, gun bare and gleaming, against the maroon carpeting. One fist slowly uncurling to drop his die to the floor. When he looks up at Eames, his face is dead pale and completely focused. "I hate you," he declares.

"I believe you," Eames answers. His nose is bleeding all over the front of his shirt. He touches the bridge gingerly. "God, please tell me nothing's broken. I refuse to suffer through explaining this to anyone."

"Would it be counterproductive of me to ask why you did it, then?" Arthur says conversationally. Eames doesn't get to answer because then Arthur is shouting. "_Why_? Why would you do that? Why would you even _think_ something like this could be funny? Fuck you, Eames." He's taut-drawn and wrathful in his pajama pants and t-shirt, looking younger still now that he isn't dressed for work.

Against his better judgment, which he often seems to ignore when Arthur's around, Eames takes a step closer. "Do you really believe the song? Do you really regret nothing?" It's a powerful thought to wake up to, and he's wondered if perhaps that was why Arthur favored it. Brainwashing at its best.

"Get out." The stoniness of those eyes is like another punch. "I don't want you here. Even you can understand that."

"You really need to loosen up every now and again," Eames points out helpfully, though this is hardly the time.

"So you thought the best way to make that point was to play _this_ for me while I was sleeping? Your good intentions have a very sadistic twist." His gun hand seems to clench ever so slightly. Eames winces.

"You _could_ just laugh it off," he tries.

"You couldn't have _talked_ to me about this?"

"Right, but then you would have given that cold shoulder you're so good at applying. When do you _ever_ listen to me?" Eames is aware how childish he sounds, but given that he's smeared with blood and tears and the last fleeing shreds of his dignity, he doesn't dwell on it.

"I listen to you when you say relevant things." Now Arthur sounds like a snooty matron and Eames is beginning to wonder why this ever seemed like it might be fun. "I'm sorry if that seems like such a negligible percentage of time to you."

"Arthur," Eames asks slowly, "have you never had friends? This is what they do, get under your skin and make you face unfortunate truths because they care about you enough to do it."

The look Arthur gives him is nothing quite like any Eames has seen on his face before, inside or outside of a dream.

"Eames," says Arthur, sinking back onto the bed and straightening his shirt as if the movement is almost too laborious for him to handle, "get out. Now."


End file.
